


Broken Music

by DeadlyBingo



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3382871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadlyBingo/pseuds/DeadlyBingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the group took shelter in a barn, Daryl finds solace in an unexpected object.  (A short drabble based on Daryl's experience with the music box in 5x10, 'Them'. Daryl focused, bethyl undertones).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Music

He should be sleeping.  On some desperate level, his body craved sleep.  But he still couldn’t.  So he just lay there, trying to pretend he was getting rest.  Hoping the act would stop the looks, the nagging, the reminders he wasn’t taking care of himself.  When Rick dictated who would take shifts on guard that night, he made it clear that Daryl, Maggie, and Sasha would not have those responsibilities.  Rick didn’t say it was because they were broken.  He didn’t have to say it, everyone already knew.  It was the same when they had been left behind with the kids instead of scouting Noah’s town.  They weren’t assets anymore.  They were burdens.

Daryl was falling apart, the whole group was.  Their bodies were breaking down and their minds were shutting off.  They didn’t know what they were walking toward anymore and that made it damn near impossible to take the next steps.

Beth would keep walking; Daryl knew that.  Beth would find something to move toward.  Or at least she would look at the people around her and move forward for them.

They didn’t do that anymore.  They didn’t look at each other as they walked.  Not like they used to. The group didn’t try to joke or tell old stories to keep spirits up.  They didn’t consult one another or make plans of what to do next. Probably because it no longer helped.  They just walked.  One foot after the other.

Daryl sat up, no longer pretending to try to sleep, and ran his hand down his neck.  It was warm, almost burning.  Around him was a combination of forced silence and light snores.  The group was divided: those who were being killed by the outside forces, and those who were dying from the inside out.  The rain had relieved some of the pain of former, but it hadn’t had any positive effect on Daryl.

Slowly, he stood up and slung his crossbow over his shoulder.  At the noise, Rick looked back from his spot at the barn door but he didn’t say anything.  He didn’t have to.  Daryl knew he was disappointed.  Rather than confront Rick, Daryl turned away and moved toward the back of the structure.  Maybe he could find a window, a loose board, something he could use to let himself out for a while.  He felt like a caged animal, trapped and desperate.  He needed so urgently to breathe.

As he made his way through the shadows his eyes were drawn to Maggie and Glenn and he slowed to a pause.  Even in sleep, Maggie’s face was devastated.  But Glenn had his arms around her and he looked solid, stronger than he ever had.  They would be okay.  They had each other.  He had nothing.

Just as Daryl was about to walk away, he saw it: a small yellow box that Maggie had been holding onto since earlier in the day.  Silently, he picked it up, examining it in his hands.  It looked sturdy, well worn and greatly loved.  It was something homemade by a parent or family friend, not junk picked up at the local department store.  Lifting the lid, the pink ballerina sprung up, but made no other noise.  He found himself leaning in closer, examining the blonde hair of the girl, the tutu, the pink wings, and even the ballerina’s painted smile.  However, once he caught a view of his grimy face in the cloudy mirror and immediately pulled himself back and had to resist the urge to slam the lid shut.  He didn’t need to see that, he knew he looked like hell.  He could feel it.

He just needed to hear it.  He needed the music.  He needed there to be something good.  Something hopeful. _Something like her._  Carefully, he turned the key, just once, just to hear a few notes.  It probably wouldn’t even wake anyone around him.  But he was met with silence.  He turned the key a few more times, listening as it clicked, and waited. But once again, nothing.

His overpowering outrage at the broken box took him off guard.  What did he expect?  Nothing worked these days.  For a moment, he wanted little more than to smash the box on the ground.  He could turn, storm out of the barn, and force Rick to let him leave.  But he couldn’t.  He knew that box would continue to haunt him.

Instead Daryl took the box back to his “stall,” and got to work.  Gingerly, using his bandana and a tip of an arrow, he cleaned out each of the gears, taking his time to do it properly.  He knew he didn’t have anywhere else to be and this task was as deserving as any at the moment. Judging by the build-up, the thing probably hadn’t worked in years, but by the time he shoved the bandana back in his pocket, he knew his job was done.  

Instinctively, Daryl started to turn the key again but he stopped himself.  Instead, he closed the lid and replaced the bronze latch with a click.  He no longer needed to hear it play, he knew it would.  And hearing the music wasn’t what mattered now.  Just knowing that it would be there when it was needed was enough.


End file.
